“Kind of both,” Strange muses, shaking out the sleeves of his robes, hands pressed against his knees. The skies are darkening further, grey clouds building over their heads; he can feel another few light patters landing in his dark hair. With a faint irritated flicker, he flicks a hand and a pale runic shield shimmers into place over him, like a magical umbrella. She can see the shape of it as the drizzle hits the shield and slides right off.

Thinking aloud over Piper’s issue: “It takes a great deal of power to affect a larger, broader area like a rainstorm. But a water ball in your palm takes careful finesse and control. Magic, in the end, requires both. I’m starting to get the impression,” he says, sending her another considering look, “that you’re good about the power part but notsomuch with control.”

That was what fire could become so easily, after all: a flame devouring fuel, an out-of-control forest blaze.